It was raining when I finally pulled into the driveway of Caernaven and made my way slowly down it, the gravel under the tyres making a sound like rushing waves. There was no Angus to greet me at the door, no exchange of awkward kisses. I paused for a moment after shutting the door, breathing deeply. Mrs. Green had long since gone home to her cottage that lay about half a mile down the estate lane. She’d left a note for me, telling me she’d see me in the morning, and a casserole kept warm by the Aga. I ate it at the kitchen table, unwilling to bear the dining room with its frigid temperature and the empty chair at the head of the table. Then I went down to the cellar.
The kitchen was always warm from the Aga but walking down the cellar steps was like plunging into a cold pool. The air down there smelled dank and the dusty bottles in their serried rows glinted dully in the wan light that fell from the doorway at the top of the stairs.
The only light switch was at the bottom of the stairs, so there was always the terrifying descent into darkness when walking down the steps, and the equally frightening, panicky, run back up, with the dying of the light behind you and the darkness that came snapping at your heels. I took an armful of bottles, not checking the labels, and bolted the cellar door behind me when I got to the kitchen.
I poured myself the first glass and wandered through to the hallway. I had taken off my shoes at the door and my socked feet moved almost soundlessly over the chessboard tiles on the floor. This is all mine, I thought. I felt oppressed by the knowledge. Despite the high ceilings and the wide hallways, the house felt as if it were shrinking, pressing itself closer and closer about me. I walked up the stairs, trailing my free hand up the polished banister. At the first landing, the stairs split in two and I followed the left-hand stairway, walking up to the first floor where the majority of the bedrooms were. I paused outside Angus’s room, my hand on the door handle. Then I pushed the door open and went inside, walking over the spot where he’d fallen and died. I only realised this once I’d done it and a shudder went through me.
I stood in the centre of his bedroom. It was tidy, the bed stripped bare, the fireplace empty save for a few flecks on soot on the grate. For all that, it smelt musty, unaired. I realised I had one hand up to my mouth and I kept swallowing. There was an old photograph of my mother on his dressing table, but no image of me. I felt a jab of anger. Why didn’t he have a photograph of me? Was I that much of an embarrassment that he couldn’t bear to be reminded? The anger cooled as quickly as it had appeared and I felt my eyes burn yet again. Abruptly, I turned and left, banging the door behind me.
I had some thought of going into the rest of the bedrooms on this floor but I had finished my wine. I went back to the kitchen to top up my glass, slopping it over the side.
I decided to go to bed early, to turn my back on the day and make a real start tomorrow. There were papers to go through and documents to find. All of a sudden, I felt weary. It was this twitchy, fraught state that frightened me in London; it was then I had strange thoughts and fancies. I thought for an instant of the blonde woman, but somehow knew I would never see her here. She belonged to London and all its tensions.
I had a missed call from Matt on my mobile, asking if I’d got there safely and to please call him as soon as I could. I rang him and waited, a little nervously, for the phone to be answered, but my call went through to the answer machine and his mobile was switched off. He hadn’t mentioned he was going out. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. I left him a loving and light-hearted message, trying to sound as carefree as I possibly could, hoping that would reassure him. Then I trailed up to bed and sat down, stretching my legs and wincing at the ache in my back. I put the half empty wine bottle and another full one on the bedside table. I’d hang out here for the evening, with some books and my drinks. I felt jumpy and nervous. The house felt too big; I could feel the space of it behind my bedroom door, its creaks and echoes and empty rooms. I returned to my bed and the wine bottle and began drinking determinedly, seeking a measure of bravado, or alternatively, sledgehammering myself into oblivion for the night.
Chapter Eleven
True to her word, Mrs. Green was in the kitchen cooking breakfast for me when I stumbled downstairs at half past eight, my head throbbing. Her greying hair had recently been crisply permed and her broad, capable hands were following their familiar routine; breaking eggs into their poaching pans, measuring coffee grains into the percolator, wiping crumbs from the surface of the breadboard.
“How have you been, Maudie?”
“Well,” I said, tentatively. The smell of coffee caught in my throat. Nausea hit me and I turned away, breathing deeply.
“Oh, I’m sorry dear. Of course you haven’t been here since the funeral, have you? It must be hard.” She sighed. “It’s not been the same since he’s gone, you know. Well, of course you know. It’s not the same at all.”
The nausea receded. I managed to mutter something in response.
“Breakfast won’t be long,” she said. “Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just a bit under the weather.” I kept my distance, in case she caught the reek of wine fumes from me. “I’m sure a bit of breakfast will do me good.”
After I’d forced a plate of food down my reluctant throat and sat for a moment, struggling not to vomit, I levered myself back up and went outside for a bit of air. My head was killing me.
The sun was struggling feebly through a bank of grey cloud. I could barely see the mountains; cloaked in mist as they were. I took a few deep breaths, trying to quell the nausea. This house was bad for me, in all ways. Perhaps I should sell it.
After a while, I went back inside and straight up to the study. Angus had been an organised man, a skill I didn’t think I’d inherited. I waded through neat reams of paper and countless files, all correctly labelled. What exactly was I looking for? Why was I even here? I was just fumbling around, as usual, getting in the way, not knowing my purpose. Halfway through the morning I called Matt’s mobile, just to say hello, but it was turned off. He probably had a class. No matter, I’d try him later.
There was really nothing for me to do in the study. I drifted back to my room and began to poke around in the cupboards. Within minutes, I’d found a whole heap of absorbing stuff; stuff I’d forgotten about for years – school certificates and books and faded photographs. There were several from boarding school, including a group photograph of all the girls in my final year. I’d framed it, for some reason; God knows why I’d thought it worthy of that. I picked it up, wiping the dust from the surface of the glass. There was my fifteen year old self, third row, fifth from the left; my hair in an unfortunate fringe and the knot of my school tie slightly askew. I wasn’t smiling.
I dropped the photograph and wiped my hand on my jeans. I sifted through a few old textbooks and dog-eared notebooks. There was a battered old teddy bear wedged underneath another heap of exercise books. I picked them up to see if I could free him and then recognised the writing on the front page of the top book. My God, my old diaries. I picked up the topmost one and weighed it in my hands. I felt a sudden reluctance to open it. If only I could be sure of the year, without opening it, to see if it was safe for me to read... I took a deep breath and turned over the front cover.